


where nothing is ever put straight

by riyku



Category: Eyewitness (US TV) RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: James doesn't believe in fate.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> title courtesy of the psychedelic furs.
> 
> non-au. set on the day of the Eyewitness finale.
> 
> for violet.

James doesn't believe in luck. California born and bred, but he doesn't buy into fate or destiny or better living through crystal meditation. It's not that he knocks it. It's just not him. He works hard, thinks being kind, thoughtful and thankful will get him further than channeling energy into his chakras. 

Fate hadn't delayed his flight from New York by an hour and a half, forced them to unload at a different terminal, made him forget his water bottle on the plane and have to stop to buy a new one before leaving the airport to make up for these dry SoCal winters and pumped in airplane air. 

Fate also doesn't stop his lungs, cause him to freeze halfway to handing the cashier his money when he hears a familiar laugh, this particular breathy sound that's been hardwired into his heart from the moment he'd first heard it, months and months ago. His Hollywood sunglasses come off, the hood he's got pulled down almost to his nose is pushed back. His lungs still aren't working too well.

Tyler is walking a few yards away, chin tucked down, hair falling into his eyes in sloppy-perfect waves. He's wearing his travel clothes. Those jeans James knows have a hole in the back pocket where his wallet is poking through. The t-shirt he bought at that one taco place they often went to when they were shooting in Ontario. Plaid flannel unbuttoned over top of it, because it is Sunday, after all. Thoughtlessly, Tyler nudges his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. The move is as familiar as his laugh. 

His girlfriend is walking beside him and Tyler is carrying her backpack as well as his own, slung over one shoulder and making him lean a bit. He's that kinda guy. He glances over toward her and must catch James from the corner of his eye. His steps stumble, a tiny hitch easily missed except James has been waiting for it, pathetically hopeful, wishing with his whole soul best for Tyler to see him. Make the first move.

Tyler's mouth falls open, melts into a huge grin a beat later, and James gives him a smile to match it, forgetting for now how ridiculous he's afraid it makes him look, how it's too sharp, that everyone can see his wrong-shaped heart shining through it.

Long strides match long strides and Tyler nearly falls into him, holds onto him so tightly, nose buried in James's neck, soft hair brushing his cheek. A tiny kiss against the spot where James's pulse pounds the hardest. There and gone again, fast enough that it could be taken for a mistake, something unintentional. 

Tyler lets his hand trail down James's arm as he steps back, hooks their fingers together for a moment. Another tiny mistake. 

"What are you…I thought you'd be home by now, totally crashed," he says, and James translates it like the love-drugged kid that he is, that Tyler has turned him into. _I've been thinking of you. I have your schedule committed to memory._

"Delay," James tells him. Shrugs. Squeezes Tyler's shoulder then plucks at his flannel. "Tonight. The finale."

"Feels like forever ago," Tyler says, voice deeper and more quiet, a light in the sideways look he directs at James. Another translation: _It's been one week, two days, coming up on four hours since you last fell asleep inside of me._

Tyler's girlfriend is hanging back, a victim of the force field they always seem to build around themselves. It's not her fault. It's not anybody's fault. James waves, says hi, watches as Tyler blinks, seems to wake up, and asks, "Is somebody picking you up?"

James shakes his head and says, "No, the agency is paying for a cab. Work trip, so…"

"Gimme two minutes. Don't move," Tyler says, and James watches as the other half of his heart hurries off, girlfriend in tow, gets her set up at the gate, nestled in a pile of their bags and dashes back to him. 

James counts. Ninety seconds. He doesn't move. Barely blinks.

"I told her I was gonna walk you as far as security," Tyler says, not slowing down, as he grabs James by the elbow and pulls him along. "This fucking sucks. I wish—"

"Don't," James cuts him off. They've moved past all the sorrys, planted their flags firmly in what-can-you-do territory. It doesn't mean that James hates it any less or that the thought of another two weeks with Tyler outside of arm's reach could fuck him up any more than it already does.

Tyler leads him down a corridor, makes a left when they should be making a right, and weaves around people to guide them toward the restrooms. He doesn't pause, doesn't spare a glance around them. That's James's job. It's always been his job to worry about how people perceive him, to always be so careful, but everyone around them seems caught in their own little lives, paying no attention to the two boys tripping over each other to hurry into the family bathroom. No one sees Tyler spin on him before the door can fully close and they can set the lock. No one sees Tyler palm his face, slide his fingers into his hair and lick into his mouth. 

"I thought I wasn't gonna see you, and now it's like, _shit,"_ Tyler says, and kisses him again, moaning fuck-starved and desperate into James's mouth. 

James turns them around, presses Tyler's back against the door. His bones feel like they're about to shatter, turn into dust but they're strong enough to haul Tyler's thighs up and wrap them around his stuttering hips, keep him there, pinned between industrial tile and James's body. James grinds against him, a rapid-fire dry fuck, precome slopping up shorts. 

James groans, mouth smudging along Tyler's throat, tonguing at his adam's apple, feeling it jump against his lips while Tyler mutters things like yeah and yours and please, squirms until his feet are on solid ground again along with his hastily dropped jeans.

It's fast by necessity. Tyler has an approaching boarding call and James hasn't had Tyler on his dick in over a week, felt the sweet, soul-altering clench of him in far too long. Tyler should have better than this, should be laid out on soft sheets while James worships every inch of him, the tips of his Peter Pan ears, the smooth, pale flesh of his inner thighs, every precious, delicate fingertip. James wants to lick and suck, open Tyler up on his tongue, eat him out until he's begging, see if he can make him shoot on that alone.

What Tyler doesn't deserve is a quick screw in an airport bathroom, his shirts bunched up under his arms, two spit-slick fingers up his ass to get him ready to take it. And what James doesn't deserve is Tyler, this angel-faced dream-boy, staring over his shoulder, teeth set in his bottom lip, spreading his legs and his ass and showing James how much he needs him to feed him his dick.

James is shaking by the time he's balls deep, too quick and too dry and it's gotta hurt, but Tyler's making these happy sounds, low groans and tiny sighs, his rim hugged so tight around James's dick, one hand pressed to the wall to keep his balance and the other digging into James's ass, urging him to move, do something. 

"Want you so bad," James says, mind not really online, body not really there either as Tyler starts to shift and squirm against him, doing the work for both of them. He plants his face in the crook of Tyler's neck, buries his nose in his hair, pulls out the smallest amount and slides back in again. Graceless and awkward, a teenager in puppy-love, pants around his knees sorta fuck, forgetting what to do with his hands until Tyler guides one of them down, weaves their fingers together around his dick and starts to thrust into their combined grip. A few rushed strokes and now Tyler's shaking too, pretty mouth open on a choked moan, his spunk streaking up the wall, splattering the floor.

"God, you're all I think about," Tyler whispers on a punched-out breath. James slams into him, skin buzzing, crazy-in-love thing happening in his guts. He's so close, starts to pull out when Tyler bears down hard around his dick, a hand flying to his hip again. "Don't you fucking dare. Stay in there."

So James does. Shoots raw inside of Tyler, makes a mess of him, wetter and sloppier with each jab of his hips, white-static thoughts in his head of Tyler a mile high in the sky, sitting in come-stained boxers, smelling like him. James wonders if he'll wash them later or do what he would do and keep them filthy, save them for a lonely day.

"I'll call you as soon as I get there." Tyler's still breathless, in a hurry to fix his jeans. He pauses from screwing around with his belt, nips at James's mouth. "I'll call you every night."

"Don't worry about that." James is stuck, watching Tyler put himself together, standing there with his dick still hanging out and his heart on the outside of his skin. "Go. Be a good boyfriend."

Tyler laughs, smiles _that_ smile, the one that makes James want to drop to his knees and start making promises. Once, during an interview, Tyler had asked him to marry him, and he'd said yes, so fast. The question had been a joke. His answer had not. 

"I am," Tyler says. "That's why I'm gonna call you every morning, too."

\--end

 

thanks for reading!


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